I haven’t told anyone yet. I’m worried about the reaction. But Elijah seems like a safe audience. “I’m going for Rizzo,” I admit.

“Rizzo,” he says, his mouth remaining open. “Rizzo. Rizzo?” His brain can’t understand it. “Why Rizzo?”

I don’t want to lie to my friend. “It’s my dream part,” I say.

He scoffs. “Your dream role is Rizzo?”

“She’s on the list.”

“You’re weird,” he says with a laugh.

“You wanted to be my friend.”

“I like you because you’re weird,” he says, then finishes his drink. “To be honest, this Rizzo thing will improve your odds. There’s no sure-thing senior girl for any role but Sandy. Kelsey Whitton was born to play Sandy. That leaves Rizzo up for grabs. But you’re going to piss off some girls.”

“I will?” I ask, alarmed. I don’t want to piss off anyone.

“Possibly, but I support you auditioning for any role you want,” he says with the smile that makes everyone like him. “But I do wish you were my Kenickie.”

“Who, me?” I ask, attempting the John Travolta accent. “I’ll be your Kenickie in real life.”

Elijah looks around. “So, I can trust you with my secrets?”

“Obviously,” I say, pumped to hear secrets.

“Guess who had a make-out session in between parked cars after the party this weekend? Me! Me! Meeeeee!” he sings.

“With who?” I ask.

Elijah smiles big. “Here’s a hint. He’s a British cello master—”

“Duncan?”

“Bingo, baby. Can you believe it?”

“No, actually,” I accidentally say. “I thought he was into Anna. Guess I read it wrong.”

“You read it half wrong, my friend.” He shoots me a smile. “He’s pan.”

“Pan?”

Elijah smiles. “Pansexual means into a person regardless of gender.”

“I knew that,” I lie.

“But he’s not out about dating guys. He thinks it will hurt his career.”

Elijah is about to divulge more but gets distracted. Maybe he spotted someone? “Actually,” he says, not looking at me, “I’ll be back, and we’ll do a duet.”

“No thanks,” I say, but he’s already disappeared into the crowd.

I’m headed toward the bathroom but stop to watch a girl with dirty-blonde hair walk onstage. She’s beautiful in a chill, hippie way—wearing yellow-tinted aviator glasses, high-waisted jeans, and an acoustic guitar across her chest. There’s already clapping and hollering—she must be a favorite. After centering herself in front of the microphone, she gives the guitar a strum.

“Hey, guys,” she says in a small voice. The crowd cheers, and many people have their phones above their head, recording. “I’m Maggie Ridge, and I’m going to do an original. That cool with you?”